Upon hearing this, Grace Quinn instinctively reached out, pressing her hand against John Amster's lips. "No, you don't."
A flicker of amusement danced in his eyes. Gently, he removed her hand and clarified, "I meant I want to drive you home. It's late."
Realizing her mistake, her cheeks flushed, but she quickly masked it with an indifferent expression. "Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Amster. However, our relationship is complicated. Further contact could cause trouble for my work." She withdrew her hand and stepped back. "It's late. You should rest."
Without waiting for his reply, she got into her car, started the engine, and drove off.
Once home, Grace took a hot shower and poured herself a glass of red wine. Settling onto the terrace, she let the night breeze cool her skin as she gazed at the city lights.
Her phone buzzed.
A news alert flashed across the screen:
"Powerful Alliance! Marriage Between the Hoffman and Walton Families!"
Accompanying the headline was a photo of her ex-boyfriend, Alex Hoffman, dining with her sister-in-law, Susan Walton, bathed in the golden glow of sunset.
Grace scoffed, setting her phone down. She had long since let go of Alex. What bothered her wasn't his betrayal—it was the hypocrisy of those around her.
Her phone rang again, this time with a familiar name.
Her mother, Clara Quinn.
She sighed, answering it.
"Have you seen the news about Alex's engagement?" her mother's voice crackled, laced with anger.
"Yeah," Grace replied flatly.
"He was supposed to be your best option! How could Susan steal him from you? What can I expect from you now? This is shameful! I've arranged a blind date with a wealthy man soon. You better not mess this up when he returns to the country!"
Grace pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaustion creeping in. Her mother's love had always been conditional—measured by wealth, status, and marriageability.
"I don't want to date or get married right now," she said evenly.
"Are you planning to be a pathetic old maid? Do you want me to be humiliated by that witch Mariah forever? Get a beauty treatment and be ready when I call!"
The call dragged on for nearly an hour, a relentless storm of scolding.
When it finally ended, Grace downed the rest of her wine.
She wasn't heartbroken over Alex. She had never truly loved him. What hurt was the weight of her family's expectations—the way her mother treated her as nothing more than a pawn for social gain.
In moments like this, she used to text John.
A simple message and he would reply with a hotel room number, leading to a night of comfort, of escaping reality.
But now, he was John Amster. The father of her student. A line she could never cross again.
She poured another glass, savoring the bitter warmth as the moonlight bathed her in silver.
Then—
Ding-dong.
The doorbell rang, shattering the silence.
Frowning, she checked the monitor.
John Amster stood at her doorstep, dressed in a black windbreaker, his handsome face as unreadable as ever.
For a brief second, she thought she was hallucinating.
Opening the door, she stared at him in surprise. "Why are you here?"
John lifted a small tube. "You got hurt at my place. I should be responsible."
His sharp gaze swept over her.
She was wrapped in a white bathrobe, loosely tied at the waist, her damp hair cascading over her shoulders. The faint scent of wine lingered around her.
Grace stiffened, gripping the doorframe. "I'm fine. Just give me the medicine and leave, Mr. Amster."
She reached for the ointment, but as she tried to close the door, John's long leg blocked it.
With effortless strength, he stepped inside and shut the door behind him.
The dim wall lamp cast long shadows across the room.
Her brows knitted together. "Mr. Amster, leave. Or I'll call security."
Ignoring her, he bent down and—before she could react—scooped her up effortlessly.
"John—!"
He carried her to the sofa, setting her down with ease. Shrugging off his coat, he revealed a fitted black vest that highlighted his lean, muscular frame.
Kneeling beside her, he grasped her ankle firmly. "Don't move."
His grip was strong, and with the shift in position, the bathrobe threatened to slip, revealing too much skin.
Grace inhaled sharply, her hands clutching the fabric. "John, let go."
She kicked at his thigh—only to find it as solid as iron.
Ignoring her resistance, he examined her knee. The bruising had deepened, his expression darkening. "You didn't apply any medicine today?"
"It's just a small injury—ah!"
The moment the cool ointment touched her skin, she flinched, her knee jerking instinctively.
His hold tightened.
Her breath hitched. Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the heat radiating from him—but her voice came out softer than she intended.
"John… it hurts. Be gentle…"
His fingers paused.
His dark eyes flickered with something primal, something restrained.
The air between them grew charged, and heavy.
His thumb brushed against her skin, lingering for a second too long. A wave of heat surged through him as he looked at her—flushed cheeks, parted lips, the hint of vulnerability in her eyes.
He truly wanted to…